


Percival

by Trickstarz



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men First Class - Fandom, x-men days of future past
Genre: Angst, Atomic Blonde AU, BAMF Charles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Post X-Men: First Class, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, bitter charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12905718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trickstarz/pseuds/Trickstarz
Summary: He was no longer Charles Xavier.Charles Xavier had never been cruel, had never seen himself as selfish. David Percival was, and he thrived in the grime of his own selfish measures. He fucking loved it. He reveled in his deceit, in the blood and the double crossing that was the anarchy between the walls of Berlin.So really, when they sent fucking Lorraine Broughton, the jewel of the bloody crown, he should’ve known it would end like this.





	1. The Fall of the Berlin Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind, this story will be violent and uncouth.  
> This story revolves around an AU where the Cuban Missile Crisis and the fall of the Berlin Wall are a lot closer on the timeline then they are in real life, so forgive me if you are a history buff. Charles Xavier, after the X-men: First Class, and a time spent healing his body (leaving him with a broken, jaded mind), becomes David Percival. None of X-men know where he's gone, and he no longer uses his powers. It follows aspects of Days of Future Past (i.e., the pain Charles feels when using his powers, Raven being on her own and bitter towards Erik).

It wasn’t difficult to become someone else, not even the first time. Really, that should’ve scared him more than it had, which is to say, it hadn’t at all.

He’d always been good with stories. A lie to Kurt with the slow hum of _believe me_ pressed towards his brain. He lied about Raven to his mother, convinced her that the child was her own. He lied to garner love for his sister, though it never quite worked for him if his childhood scars were anything to go by. Maybe it was a lack of love towards himself that’d prevented it. He’d always wondered about that.

He lied to the children when he promised them they’d be safe, cared for, when he knew he was walking them into a war zone. It was his own damnable excitement at proving himself _right_ , proving that there were others like him, like Raven, that pushed him to weave a dripping, silver-tongued story and dull their fear. He had infected them with his own excitement and Darwin was killed because of it. Raven left because of it. He thought he would never walk again because of it. _He drove himself mad because of it_.

He was no longer Charles Xavier after that pain, he couldn’t be. His heart had become a jaded thing and his mind was burned with a dulled cleverness that felt excruciatingly vindictive. Charles Xavier had never been cruel, had never _seen_ himself as selfish. David Percival was both of those things, and he thrived in the grime of his own selfish measures. In fact, _he fucking loved it_. So really, when they sent fucking _Lorraine Broughton_ , the jewel of the bloody crown, he should’ve known it would end like this, shot on the wrong side of Berlin.

                  .                                                                                              .                                                                                           .

He was screaming, gritting his teeth against the taste of cigarettes and blood while her boot pressed the bullet further into his side. She knelt down next to him, knowing he was too incapacitated, from both the wounds of his struggle with the french girl and the bullet she put in his side, to do anything.

“Are you going to lie to the very end?” She was yanking off the watch. God, that watch, the _fucking_ watch with the _fucking_ list. He wished it hadn’t come about and caused all this trouble. He would’ve been content drinking the rest of his life away between the walls of Berlin.

He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, struggling to speak.

“Truth and lies, Lorraine,” he let his head loll on the pavement, “people like us don’t know the difference.” He was of course, referring to the fact that _he had to kill her, the poor little french girl knew too much_. She scoffed in disgust.

“Oh we know the difference, David. We choose to ignore it.” He could hear it, in her head, the rage bubbling beneath her skin. He could hear it, that she wanted to kill him, to put a bullet between his skull and frame him for her own crimes. He hadn’t listened to another's thoughts in a very long time.

 _I really must be dying_ , he thought, vaguely amused before it really settled in his head.  _I'm going to die_ , he choked on his own fear.

Panic swelled in his chest. He didn’t want to die, not yet. He gritted his teeth, tears swelling and freezing against his cheeks. He wasn’t sure that he could control his powers, so long out of use, if he was already losing control and _dying_ , but his options were limited and his window of opportunity was quickly waning. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to come back from it, afterwards, if he got out of this alive. It might end in a poor trade; death for a life of insanity. 

He made his decision.

Lorraine was talking again, saying something that he couldn’t garner enough focus to listen to as he scraped desperately against the walls of her mind, pushing forward another illusion, another lie. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily against the burning scream that bubbled in his chest, his mind whispering _believemebelievemebelieveme_ at hers. He hoped, _God_ he hoped she wouldn’t fight his mind. He clenched his jaw in pain; voices were seeping into his waning consciousness, tortured thoughts from the thousands of protesters pushing at the Berlin wall. It was a sign that he was losing focus, he was running out of time. He made one last grasp, one last push towards her mind, before all strength left him.

She lifted her gun at his passive body and squeezed the trigger.

Fireworks exploded in the background.

David Percival had a bullet in his skull. 

Lorraine Broughton turned on her heel and walked away, watch firmly in her grasp. 


	2. Bleeding on Your Mother's Good Sofa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles bleeds out in a strangers apartment, grappling with his long-suppressed powers. A familiar face tends to his wounds while --an unwanted action-- butting into his business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of this is un-betad by the by. I only have a vague idea of where I want this story to go based off of dialogue, so forgive me if this seems rushed.

His ears were ringing-- _screeching_ more like-- and he was grappling with the overwhelming urge to close his eyes, the feeling similar to when you wake up in the mornings and think, _“just a few more minutes”._ This, however, was a whole hell of a lot more dangerous. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to open his eyes again if closed them now. Shock and cold would probably do him in if he didn't tend to the--relatively speaking-- _minor_ wounds he had.

The bullet had embedded itself in the concrete a few feet from his head, and, in the current moment, he was wishing his little mind trick _hadn’t_ worked. He couldn’t stop _feeling_ all of the emotions, so bitter in their joy, as the citizens of East and West Berlin tore down the wall that had separated families and friends for too long. It was making it difficult to focus on gathering enough willpower to _remember_ that he was bleeding out, in the cold night, and likely in going into shock if he hadn’t already. He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers.

He pressed his left hand against the bullet wound in his side-- _far side,_ he thought, _that’s good, nothing vital--_ in an uncoordinated jerking of the limb. Putting pressure on the wound was excruciating, to say the very least; it burned, and it was very likely the bullet was keeping warm beneath his flesh.

“Fuck,” he groaned, attempting to sit up, “ _fucking-fuck.”_ He fell back against the pavement, head smacking the cold ground. He hardly felt the impact, too busy trying to shut the voices up, trying to close the floodline he’d opened. It felt like his own brain was pushing outwards against his skull, trying to seep out of his ears and nose. The light, the noise, however dim and muffled, was too much for his body to handle.

He rolled onto his free hand, knees digging into the concrete, blood squelching from his side and between his fingers. He sobbed in pain, slowly pulling himself up using the stone steps that had been behind him, and pulled himself into a seated position against them.

“God almighty,” he breathed, head rolling against the stone steps, eyes slipping shut. The last time he had felt pain quite so keen as this, quite so mentally and physically taxing as this, had been when the coin pressed into Shaw’s head while he inhabited it. It had been when the bullet split his spine after Erik-

His thoughts were interrupted by a presence. He felt _something_. It was digging at his mind, something far too close. Someone was approaching.

He groaned, body going slack. There was no way for him to reach his gun, not with his numb limbs and hands sticky with blood; not with gun still lying on the cobblestone where he had first fallen. He laughed, pitifully, as the figure approached. He couldn’t gather his mind to press back against theirs, he couldn’t read them effectively enough. He was, in all intents and purposes, a sitting duck to the fast approaching figure.

They were close enough that he could now hear footsteps slapping against the ground, a noise nearly drowned by the echo of the fireworks. He could _feel_ them as they stopped, quite abruptly, in front of him.

There was a pause, and he sensed the uncertainty flitting about around their head before a voice broke the silence.

“Charles? Oh my God, is that you?” A figure stepped into his blurring vision, rippling with blue. Warmth flooded his mind, along with a deep surprise and sorrow. He wasn’t sure which emotions were his and which were hers, only that it focused his mind _solely_ to hers.

“Raven,” he breathed, incredulous. A laugh bubbled in his chest, cynical and painful. He wasn’t sure his numb fingers were holding proper pressure on his side and he couldn’t feel the wound anymore. “How-” he laughed, wetly, “how did you find me?”

“I didn’t.” She was standing before him now, proud as she never had been before in her own skin. He supposed ten years was long enough for such a change to take root. After all, he had changed too. “I didn’t come to Berlin for you.” She hesitated before stepping forward, concern etched on her face.

“Let me guess,” he drawled as she knelt beside him, tears blurring his gaze, “ _Erik_ sent you for one of his _righteous_ tasks?” Pain bloomed in his side as Raven thrust her hand against it, a childish annoyance seeping into his mind. _Her_ childish annoyance, he supposed.

“I haven’t talked to Erik in years,” she was lifting his arm to wrap around her shoulder, tugging him up as gently as she could. He yelled in pain.

“Jesus, Charles,” fear was coloring her mind now as she pulled him up the stairs, into the warmth of the building, “we have to stop the bleeding.”

“My dear,” he slurred, sagging heavily against her, “it isn’t as bad as it looks, I promise. It’s more the-” he felt drunk, unable to string his thoughts together properly, “the _voices.”_

Raven glanced at him, mildly confused. She leaned forward and pushed open a cheap wooden door before dropping him heavily on an armchair. He could hear her, tumbling through the closed apartment, probably looking for something to clean his wound and staunch the bleeding.

_It’s already clotted, Raven, don’t be too worried._

A muffled crashing sound reached his ears while Raven cursed.

 _Jesus, don’t_ do _that._ She pushed the thought towards him, projecting purposefully for him to read as she stepped back into the room.

“You’re mad at me.” He said. His skin felt like ice. It was probably the product of the clammy sweat that had broken out on his body, miniscule droplets clinging to his every pore. Raven shook her head and helped him sit up. She drew a long slit in the back of his shirt and rolled it off his shoulders, her memories of experiences past-- _practice on Erik,_ his mind supplied-- danced in his head.

“That hurt, asshole, getting in my head like that.” She wouldn’t look him in the eye. Always, even when she had been enraged with him, Raven would _look_ at him. She never did like to look strangers in the eye, however.

He hissed as she poured alcohol over the bullet wound. It was a bottle found in the tenants liquor cabinet. 

“You have a knife wound between your shoulder blades.” She said, flatly. It wasn’t a question, but it was pressing. She was trying to figure out who he was. It didn't matter, he'd had it stitched before he fled to the alley.

“I’m-” He groaned as she stabbed tweezers into his side, muscles contracting in raging protest, “fucking hell-- _I’m sorry_ , I didn’t mean to.” Spit dribbled down his chin but he couldn’t find enough strength to care, despite Raven’s palpable feelings of disgust.

“Sorry for what? Disappearing for ten years, not even a word left with Hank? For startling me like that? You know full well how-” she paused, unsure of her wording, “ _gross_ it feels when you aren’t used to someone in your head.” She pulled the bullet from his side, quick to press gauze pads over the newly agitated wound. “Or are you sorry that when I finally did find you, it was in an alleyway, in _Berlin_ of all places, covered in your own blood?” That same sorrow he felt earlier was clouding his mind again, like a cold, crystalline cloud just before the first snow.

She reached into the medical kit--for tape, he supposed-- before continuing.

“It isn’t severe enough for stitches, at least, not now. And,” she huffed, taping the gauze to his side, “the bloodloss isn’t anything to be concerned with if your side clots up again. We’ll have to stitch it up after we get out of Berlin.”

He laughed, genuinely this time, though it quickly devolved into a heaving, painful, cough.

“Raven, dear, what makes you think I’d go anywhere with you?” He was trying--quite unsuccessfully-- to keep her out of his head. Her emotions were confusing him. If he couldn’t decloud his mind, replace his barriers, then he truly was as good as insane. He was trying, unsuccessfully to convince himself of his own cruel words.

He caught her arm, weakly, when she tried to slap his shoulder. She was finally looking at him, looking at his face and into his eyes. He wanted to look away now that such attention was finally given.

“What happened to you, Charles?” Her head shook as she spoke. If he wasn’t reading her, that would serve to prove her disappointment well enough. And wasn’t that an irony?- the little sister being disappointed in the elder brother.

“No one has called me Charles in a very long time. I’d ask you to call me Percival only, he died out on that street there.” He nodded his head towards the window, releasing the grip he had on her arm when he realized she hadn’t made a move to pull away. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me darling, I think I’d like to sleep for a while. Maybe drink when I wake up, sleep some more after that, and get the hell out of here while I bleedin’ can. If any of Lorraine’s contacts catch wind that I’m alive I’d like to be rested enough to at least put up a good fight before they kill me.” He leaned back against the sofa, hissing as he adjusted himself enough to lay down.

In truth, he was trying to battle the voices down again; trying to keep a reign on the emotions he felt but couldn’t differentiate from his own, and he needed time to force his old barriers back up. He hadn’t flexed his telepathic muscles in a very long time. For good reason. 

Raven stood over him for a moment, and he felt what she was battling with saying as if it were on his tongue and not hers.

“You used to hate violence. You used to fight me, fight Erik-”

“Erik _,_ ” he interrupted humming. He threw an arm over his eyes, mostly to mask the wince that name had procured, “mm, yes, _Erik._ ” The name felt bitter on his tongue, more so than the lingering taste of bile and blood. “This is exactly what he wanted isn’t it? What did he use to call me? _Naive_ , I think, was thrown about often; coddled quite a bit as well. I’m sure _Erik_ would _love_ to see what I’ve become. Besides, I don’t recall criticizing who you've become, _Mystique._ ”

Raven flinched. The tone of his voice was biting; it sounded like fruit left to dry in a bowl, forgotten in the harsh afternoon sun for months on end. It was so desperately unlike the brother she had grown up with it made her ache with a nostalgia long ignored.

“Get some sleep, then.” She sighed, backing out of the room, towards the hallway. She paused at the connective arch for a brief moment, words twisting at her tongue so prominently he almost spoke them for her. Instead she turned and walked away. He let her.

He sighed and relaxed against the couch, adrenaline having long since run its course through the highway of his veins. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Seeing his once-sister was jarring, and he needed time to process both her, and the return of his abilities.

Mostly, however, he needed time to process the guilt.


	3. Dwelling on Spoilt Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles dwells on painful memories over a jug of rancid milk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sporadic (short) post, GO!

_This is the fucking game. Take but never be taken from._

He woke up some hours later to exploding fireworks and raging Berliners still pounding merrily through their streets, drunk with victory. Upon this rude awakening, it took only a moment for the pain to settle into his waking state, jarring his lethargic brain.

He groaned, rolling off the sofa and stumbling to his feet. He threw out a hand to steady himself as his body creaked in wary protest.

Pain was lancing him both physically and mentally. His side burned with a terrible itch he knew he’d immediately regret scratching, and his brain felt like it was covered with some sort of aching film.

The voices weren’t back-- _not yet--_ but he could hear the murmur of Raven’s sleep addled mind thrumming against his brain. He assumed that in sleep, his brain had anchored itself in Raven’s familiarity, blearily using it to block the rest of the screaming world out.

The world liked to scream. People, he’d learned, even the most altruistic and joyfull of them, were in a constant state of pain. Their minds sang with their hidden trials and demented thoughts. They tore through the air like toy bullets shattering against flimsy glass. People, he’d learned, didn’t like to _share_ these hidden monstrosities; it’d make them too real, too _painful_ . He learned early on that they liked even less when someone tried to _pry._ So, in order to counterbalance this silent suffering, the world screamed.

He was just the bastard unlucky enough to _hear it._

He’d missed Raven, that much he’d admit even if he _hadn’t_ subconsciously anchored his sanity to hers, but she had abandoned him on that beach. As he had lied there, paralyzed in the sand, mind too shocked to comprehend his physical wounds, she had taken Erik’s hand and _left._ Pride had lit itself in her eyes, a lecherous and hungry flame, as vengeance fueled those flames in the twining of her very soul. He swore, as he lay shivering in the heat, that he could _see_ the veins of Erik’s hatred stretching through their intertwined hands.

He had watched them go. He had pleaded, reaching towards Erik with his mind and his gaze and his words, but Erik wouldn’t take the helmet off, wouldn’t meet his eye , wouldn’t stop spewing propaganda over Charles's whispers as he _left him._ The screaming started shortly after that, clawing is way out of his throat as the _pain_ finally caught up with him.

It was a reminder, however disgusted he felt by the memory, that he had suffered worse than he was suffering now. It was a reminder that he didn’t lie and cheat and _build_ this life full of adrenaline and anarchy just to fall back into the sniveling, sorry, wreck of a man he’d been before.

Before, he had been weak. He had been a man that believed in the best of everyone despite what the pained world whispered to him; he thought he could save that sorrowful world with clever speech and empathy, with curiosity and optimism.

All the pity on him for it. Pity on his need for _someone_ to validate him. Pity on his need for anyone at all.

Now, he didn’t need anyone at all. Raven would have to go. Or, more accurately, he would have to leave Raven. He would have to detangle his mind from hers and tear those new, needy roots from that much needed soil.

He rolled his shoulders-- _painfully,_ might he add-- and reached for his bloodied mess of a coat, strewn across the back of the chaise. He didn’t remember taking it off. He didn’t remember many details from the previous night, just the moments rooted in desperation and pain. That included the painful reminder of _Delphine_ residing between his shoulders. He couldn’t help but wonder if her body had been recovered yet.

He didn’t like killing, never had, but his brutality was necessary, not _liked_ , and even bastards like Bakhtin-- the greedy murderers that they were-- had _thoughts_ and _compassions_ he couldn’t escape empathizing with in their dying moments. Shoving an ice pick through his skull had satisfied his thirst for revenge, but the lingering whispers that reminded him, inescapably, of Bakhtin’s humanity shook him. They always did.

“Fuck this,” he mumbled, running a hand down his face. He had to leave, had to get out before Raven woke up. It was hard enough to leave her here and now, but it would be far worse if he put it off any longer. The desire to just give in and collapse into her arms was unrelenting. She’d let him. She’d let him wither beneath her fingertips and hold his hollowed out body. She wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t have to.

But then-

She’d learn eventually. She’d _see_ it in him, that he’s a desperate, lying, crook. Cruel and selfish, an imitation of the man he’d been before. She’d see how bitter he had become over _one man_ and she’d know how pitiful he’d always been. She’d be right, then, for abandoning him because he wasn’t someone worth looking up to, worth following.

She’d be right then, in her decision to follow Erik instead.

_Erik would be proud of who he’d become,_ cocky in his own damnable prediction that even the greatest man would eventually fall. He would be so _proud_ that even _Charles Xavier_ could become a single-minded machine, driven by bitterness.

He scrubbed furiously at his face, counting on the violence to wake him up faster. It wouldn’t, he knew, but sorrow and frustration have always had a strange way of physically manifesting in oneself.

He shuffled over to the kitchenette and pulled open the refrigerator, keeping a mental eye on Raven all the while. The contents were sparse and monochrome, filled mostly with empty liquor bottles, but a single jug of milk was pressed far into the back of the middle shelf. He slung his coat over his shoulder and crouched down to reach for it with his good arm. He kicked the scuffed door shut and popped the top off of the milk. It smelled rancid, but of the alcoholic sort. Huffing a quiet laugh, he took a sip from the jug. The alcohol was prominent, as was the taste of rank, spoiled milk. He snickered and set it on the counter, stomach roiling merrily.

Any form of alcohol was much appreciated at this point.  

Pulling from the depths of his person--and taking another long drink of alcoholic milk-- he contorted his body around his pain for long enough to maneuver into his coat. It smelled like smoke and sweat. It had since he’d come to Berlin.

He took the milk jug with him.


End file.
